Call Of Duty: Snapshots
by smash interrupted
Summary: Prompt #5 [Broken]: Riley is damaged goods; twisted up and mangled into something too dangerous to be placed on the task force, let alone in a high-ranked position. MacTavish knows this with a certain clarity the good General doesn't seem willing to grasp. \\ A collection of one-shots and drabbles inspired by the Modern Warfare universe. \\
1. Prompt: Dismissive

**Prompt: **Dismissive**  
><strong>**Characters: **Soap, Gaz, Price [mentioned]**  
>Timeline: <strong>Post-F.N.G, Pre-Crew Expendable**  
><strong>**Words: **1569  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T

#1

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><p>'…<em>That was an improvement, but it's not hard to improve on garbage. Try it again.'<em>

Soap gritted his teeth against the familiar feeling of pricked ire, his hands brutally wringing out the rumpled, polyester t-shirt currently serving as an impromptu outlet for his frustration. He'd known that it wasn't going to be all peaches and cream when he was finally placed in an operational unit – had known that there would be no small amount of ribbing, tests and demanded respect for the very people he in turn was trying to earn it from. What he hadn't expected, however, was the irritated, and blatantly dismissive, OC that had practically laughed him back out the door.

Fabric twisted in his fingers, savage enough that his skin was beginning to burn from the too-tight grip. Soap ignored it, face dark with scowl. It stood to reason that he wasn't going to match up to the rest of the boys just yet. They'd been at this longer – already baptized by fire, their minds and bodies honed by years of punishment. And here he was, having just barely finished the intensive, but short, weekend summer camp. Six months in Wales probably seemed like a cake walk to them.

'You know, I'm not a fan of the synthetic stuff myself – gives me a great big bloody rash, it does,' a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. 'Fucking horrible when you're out slogging through some bog in the middle of arse-fuck nowhere, but sometimes you have to take what you can get. Not many chances to pop across to Tesco's around here, after all.'

Soap stared at his new lieutenant, who was leaning casually against the wall, with a look of complete bewilderment. 'Sir?'

'That shirt,' Gaz nodded to it. 'Not your colour, mate?'

Having spent the better part of an hour brooding over his performance on the obstacle course, the abrupt, and rather mundane, change of topic was a little jarring. 'I… was thinking about something else, Sir.'

Gaz made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, obviously aware that an offensive garment was quite low on Soap's list of problems, despite the F.N.G's best attempts to murder it. He watched, gaze sharp, as Soap loosened his hold and shook any lasting creases from the shirt's material. Removing the evidence of his internal conflict seemed to restore some of Soap's composure – the man straightening to address Gaz with a stiffness that was almost formal.

'Is there something you wanted, Sir?'

Gaz was met with bright, blue eyes that held an intelligence he found oddly contradictory when paired with Soap's unruly Mohawk – how the F.N.G had managed to get that passed regulation, he didn't know. 'Just thought I'd check in,' he said, offering a grin. 'It's not every day we're forced to suffer through a rookie joining the ranks.'

A muscle twitched in Soap's jaw. 'That's nice of you, Sir.'

'It's Gaz,' the lieutenant saw fit to remind him. 'Just Gaz. I don't much care for that politicking bullshit. The rest of us aren't that fond of it, either, unless it's one of the brass. You can try your luck with them, of course, but it's your funeral.'

'Understood,' Soap said curtly, letting some of the tension ease from his stance. He appreciated the subtle olive branch, but informality seemed an awful lot like jumping the gun at this point. He smoothed the front of his fatigues – his version of fidgeting, without giving too much away – and waited for Gaz to take his leave. He didn't. 'Was there… anything else, Sir?'

'Gaz,' the man reiterated firmly, letting just the right amount of authority creep into his tone to turn the suggestion into an order. The fact that Soap was clearly unsettled by the conversation wasn't lost on him, but, like all new things, he also knew that you had to wear them in before they'd fit comfortably. To be honest, he found it almost amusing, his mouth twitching upwards at how deeply Soap still had his nose buried in the etiquette handbook. 'How are you holding up?'

Soap blinked once, twice, but quickly adapted to the offhand question with another, similarly abrupt, answer: 'Fine.'

Gaz accepted the cursory reply without comment, idly rubbing his five o' clock shadow, nails scratching against stubble. He eyed Soap, sizing him up; debating with himself over some finer point only he was privy too. Eventually, he seemed to come to a conclusion. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ 'Some of the lads said Price hauled you over the coals during your run of the CQB test.'

For somebody who'd made a considerable effort to dance around the elephant in the room, his lieutenant certainly wasn't afraid of switching tactics and driving the stake home to get results. Soap couldn't help his involuntary flinch – this little chat was leaning far from the 'suck it up' attitude he'd adopted back in the early days of basic. 'It was nothing I couldn't handle, Si–' a sharply raised eyebrow cut him off mid-word, '… Gaz.'

'Good,' Gaz said. Approval flashed across his face, despite it being the only response Soap could have reasonably given. The lieutenant's hand feinted towards the back of his neck – an almost-gesture of unease, until he stuffed both hands into his pockets. Somehow, the movement, while aborted, seemed to put them both on middle ground. 'Just… try not to take it to heart, alright? His bark is generally worse than his bite. Most of the time, at least.'

Encouraged by the fact that his lieutenant was going out of his way to be approachable, Soap, hesitantly, bit the bullet and gave in to the burning question poised on the tip of his tongue. 'He's like that with everyone, then?'

'No,' Gaz dashed that hope brutally. 'But he has his reasons.'

Now a little miffed that the OC's problem seemed to be personal, Soap let the scowl he'd all but washed off his face return. There was an underlying edge in his voice that erred on the side of insubordinate when he bit out; 'Which are?'

'The last time Command saw fit to drop an F.N.G on us… well, let's just say it was bad timing,' Gaz shrugged, easy grin tightening slightly at the corners. 'We have a certain way of working, you see. Everybody knows what everybody is going to do – how they're going to do it, and where they're going to be. There's a level of trust in that. This bloke, though… We didn't know anything about him. Didn't have time to find out, either, before Command threw us in the shit. Things happened, mistakes were made. Long story short… our last F.N.G ended up coming home in a body bag.'

There was silence – Soap looking decidedly taken aback. He clearly hadn't expected that particular sob story to be the underlying cause of all the open hostility. If Price had his way, Soap never would have heard it. But Gaz seemed to always find himself building up the people Price's unique brand of bastardry was intent on tearing down. Sowing seeds of dissent so early in a relationship was never going to end well – for anybody.

With a chuckle – dark, for his personality, Gaz finished his history lesson on a rather depressing note. 'It was our fault – we should have known better. Price still blames himself, I expect. I still do.'

It was Soap's turn to level a frown at his superior – disapproving of the blame game. 'Bit harsh, isn't it?'

'First rule of leadership, mate,' Gaz told him. 'The buck stops with you. Doesn't matter if you weren't involved, or if you were simply a victim of circumstance. If you run the ship, you're responsible for everything that happens on it. No exceptions.'

For a long moment, Soap chewed on that. Whether or not he agreed with Gaz was something he didn't make clear, instead choosing to move on from the subject, which even he could tell was sore. Not bothering with half-arsed condolences that he knew wouldn't be appreciated; he let the last vestiges of formality slip away. He didn't feel quite so willing to please, now, with this new understanding. Their issue was their own – not his.

'So, I'm the second child after the first one died too young, eh?' He snorted. 'Lovely.'

'We're an unpracticed hand at this, is all I'm trying to say,' Gaz said diplomatically. 'Price is a right prick – it's part of his charm.' An amused smile, followed by a despairing shake of his head, and Gaz amended his statement. 'Or lack thereof. Just remember that he's been burned before. Playing nice isn't on his agenda – making sure you make it back is.'

With the black cloud still brewing noticeably above Soap's head, Gaz tacked on a conciliatory; 'But you wouldn't be here if we didn't think you could keep up. We know that well enough. Give it time – he'll come around.'

'Right,' Soap didn't appear to believe that for a second, but he wasn't about to call bullshit. Eventually, he sighed, slumping slightly in defeat, and raked a hand through his hair. 'Got any pointers that might help while we wait for the magic to happen?'

'Stay out of his way and try not to get your bollocks shot off,' Gaz clapped him on the shoulder. 'Do that and the two of you will get along just fine.'

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **Call Of Duty: Snapshots is a place for me to post any drabbles/one-shots I write that I feel don't fit anywhere, and can't stand on their own. Mostly I'll be writing in the Modern Warfare universe. It won't exactly be linear - I'll write what comes to mind. Updates may also be irregular, as it depends on my muse behaving itself._

_ If anyone has any prompts or ideas that they'd like to see written and feel like I won't butcher it terribly, I am open to requests. My muse has been lacking of late, so I'm trying to jump-start it by writing little things. x)_


	2. Prompt: Crew Expendable Aftermath

**Requested: **Aftermath of Crew Expendable  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Price, Soap, Gaz [mentioned]  
><strong>Timeline:<strong> Post-Crew Expendable, canon deviation [ extended time before the next mission ]  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2331  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T

#2

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><p>'Ice it for ten minutes every two hours during the day,' the medic said, eyes drawn to the chart in his hands. 'If you do that for the rest of the week, the swelling should go down enough for you to safely start a rehabilitation program.'<p>

Soap grimaced, not liking the sound of that at all. 'How long will that take?'

'I can't give you a definite time,' was the measured reply. 'Recovery periods vary between patients. Once you're able, we'll give you some simple exercises to do that will strengthen your muscles and ligaments. Those will help you regain lost balance and coordination. From there, we'll gradually build you back up to regular activity. Generally, moderate sprains take between four to six weeks to heal. It's not a process we can rush without risking re-injury.'

'Right,' Soap muttered, already low spirits dipping even further. He'd be off the active duty roster for a month, at least. If not more. 'Thanks, Doc.'

Despite his moody outlook, the medic seemed to hear the sincerity, offering Soap a sympathetic smile as he snapped the clipboard shut. 'Just remember to rest as much as you can for the next forty-eight hours. If you have to walk, use crutches. The fastest way to a full recovery is taking care of yourself. Trust me.'

* * *

><p>It figured that his first black-op's mission running with the crème de la crème of the British special forces would end with him being benched for the foreseeable future. Soap still couldn't quite swallow the injustice of it all.<p>

He'd returned to his bunk as soon as he'd been allowed to hobble out of the infirmary, pride still smarting from the events that had landed him there. He'd sprained his ankle – honest to God put himself out of commission with a single, misplaced foot. Granted, he'd been slightly rushed when the ship they'd been on started going through its final death throes before plummeting to the depths of the Bering Strait, but Soap wasn't interested in manufacturing excuses for himself.

A couple of people had poked their head through the door as the evening wore on. Soap had made an exception for Gaz, but feigned sleep for the rest. He was tired, pissed, and in too much pain to be considered good company – not that being polite had been a top priority at that point, but general irritability and the ire it might have earned him seemed like it would do little more than make his bad situation worse.

Now, he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark, the sun having set several hours ago. Despite that, there was enough moonlight seeping in around the edges of his curtains for Soap to see everything in muted silhouettes. He slipped between canvasing his room and dozing fitfully for a while, the ever-present ache in his leg refusing to let him sleep. After he blinked back into awareness for the fourth consecutive time, he gave up, grumbling when he was forced to invent an entirely new choreography in order to successfully drag himself out of bed and into the hallway.

By the quiet that had fallen over the base, broken only by the sound of his crutches clicking against the floor, Soap guessed that most of the lads had turned in for the night. With that in mind, he tried to avoid creating a disturbance, taking the first exit that he saw away from their sleeping quarters. It led straight to the mess hall, which, he realised after a monumental struggle to get through the entrance with two occupied hands, smelled strongly of coffee.

It was particularly tantalizing, for someone who hadn't eaten since early morning. Or it was until Soap's wandering eyes met the sharp, slightly amused gaze of a man who'd no doubt just witnessed his less than graceful appearance.

'Sir,' Soap greeted tonelessly.

Price inclined his head. 'Soap.'

Soap wasn't sure what to do, now, having not accounted for an impromptu meeting with his Captain. He still didn't know where he stood with Price, recent experience telling him it was somewhere between forced tolerance and an unwillingness to watch him fall in the drink.

Admittedly, though, that general outlook could be applied to most people with a conscience.

With the full weight of the man's attention bearing down on him, Soap felt his escape routes crumbling – caving in before he could even try and slip away. The urge to fidget was overwhelming, his discomfort tangible, but he refused to paint a picture of it for all to see. Because despite everything, Soap still had his pride, and with a deep, steadying breath, he let it be the catalyst which, finally, forced him to open his mouth.

'Burning the midnight oil, Sir?'

Price might have been intimidating, but he was also human. A point that was proved a moment later when Price 'hm'd' in answer.

Encouraged by the lack of trademark disdain, Soap moved further into the mess. It was like he'd been granted permission – the security guard casting a critical eye over his ID before nodding him through.

There was a cheap, plastic kettle sitting on a bench beside the food galley. He headed over to it, coordination improved enough that his movements were fluid, muscle memory reminding him how to work around a compromised limb. When he reached the bench, he found instant coffee and lumpy sugar – a combination even his blunt tastes might have questioned, if he hadn't been in such dire need of a boost.

As it were, he simply wedged his body into a secure position and set about making something similar to his preferred recipe.

'That won't help you sleep,' Price intoned knowingly, after Soap had started stirring his drink. The granules dissolved, turning the boiled water black.

'It wasn't going to happen anyway,' Soap admitted. He couldn't face Price without unbalancing himself, so he didn't, instead briefly eyeing a carton of long-life milk before resoundingly deciding against it. 'Might as well make it bearable.'

Silence, then a soft clicking that he couldn't quite place until the scent of cedar and spice filled the air. Price sighed through his nose. 'They gave you something before you left the infirmary, Soap. I imagine they meant for you to use it.'

Soap stiffened slightly, despite Price's words holding none of the sharpness he'd expect in a reprimand. He tapped his spoon against the rim of his mug, and then discarded it with a loud clatter. 'If I can't feel it, I'll end up walking on it, Sir,' he eventually replied, back still to his superior. 'No point in making it worse.'

Finally turning around, Soap caught the man tucking a lighter back into his pocket, something akin to approval etched into his face. Price pulled the cigar from his lips, exhaling smoke. "I suppose you know yourself best, eh?'

'I do, Sir.'

'One would hope,' Price said, returning the cigar to his mouth. He rolled it around between his teeth, focus returning to the sheaf of papers lying on the table in front of him. 'The last thing I need is an F.N.G who thinks he knows better.'

It was said offhandedly – a statement that wasn't meant to hold deeper meaning. Not for Soap, at least. Price couldn't have known what Gaz had shared with him earlier. The lieutenant certainly had a pair of brass ones when it came to Price, but mentioning that he'd laid bare the unit's painful history in order to secure Price some leniency in Soap's eyes wasn't something he'd do. No, that was a secret he'd keep. And he'd expect Soap to do the same.

Soap stood there quietly for a beat, weighing up his options. He had the advantage of knowing why Price seemed to dislike him on principle, though alluding to it in a discussion had an inherent risk he wasn't particularly willing to take. On the other hand, he couldn't simply let things stand as they were and hope for the best. Price held all the cards, including Soap's future, in his hands.

'Sir… about what happened on the ship…' Soap said haltingly, wondering if this approach, which took a substantially more peaceful route than any other he could think of, would do little more than raise Price's ire. Soap had enough of a read on the man to know he was the type who'd prefer blunt-and-direct, but Soap didn't want to get burnt in a blatant confrontation if he could avoid it. 'I wanted to thank you…'

'There's no need for that,' came the sharp, and rather abrupt, response. Price paused halfway through turning the page of his report, frown lines straining his brow. 'If you'd been upfront about your injury, we could have avoided it all together.'

A trickle of irritation – Soap flexed his jaw, working it off before it seeped into his voice. He'd sprained his ankle on the stairs leading up to the cargo ship's catwalk, which had been tilting and juddering as it tore away from its supports. Hardly the time for conversation. 'With all due respect, Sir – if we'd stopped to talk about it, we both would have gotten our bollocks barbequed.'

Price finished flipping the page. 'And if I hadn't noticed you lagging behind, you wouldn't be here right now.'

'Bullshit,' Soap retorted, before the training that had beaten a healthy respect into him for those of higher rank kicked into action. Speaking so freely in front of a superior officer that you knew would tolerate it was one thing – doing it in front of an unknown entity was stupidity. Still, from the way Price suddenly dropped the façade of casual indifference, Soap knew he'd already dug himself a hole. 'You had one eye turned my way the entire bloody mission. I was never in danger of falling with you breathing down my neck like that.'

'Careful,' Price said, an edge in his tone that erred on the side of warning. He'd returned his attention to Soap, gaze dark and intense – daring him to continue. 'You're getting close to crossing a line there.'

Soap forced himself to meet his eyes without faltering. He'd come this far – no point in stopping now. 'Then that would make us even, Sir.'

'Oh?' Price drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the end of his cigar steadily turning to ash and threatening to disintegrate with the slightest movement. He tugged it from his mouth again and tapped the fading embers into a tray, never taking his eyes from Soap. He was waiting for an explanation. 'Don't get tongue-tied now, Soap. Finish what you started.'

Soap grimaced. If he hadn't been bereft of making gestures, he would have rubbed the back of his neck as he was wont to do with growing unease. 'I'm not trying to be an insubordinate little shite, Sir, but you've been questioning my competence since before I arrived. You haven't said anything to that effect, I know… but actions speak louder than words.'

Price didn't interrupt, so Soap forged ahead.

'To be perfectly frank… I don't need a babysitter. I do appreciate you hauling my arse out of the fire, Sir, don't get me wrong,' he took a breath, hoping the sincerity seemed genuine. Had Price not stepped in when Soap had been desperately scrabbling for purchase, about to slip off the helicopter's ramp, then he'd be dead. Body lost amongst the tumultuous waves. 'Neither of us were prepared for me being on that mission - things happened too fast. But that's where the excuses stop. I need to know what you want from me, how things work, or somebody is going to end up knocking on the pearly white gates before their time.'

For a long, arduous moment, Price studied him. Soap tried not to tense under the scrutiny, shifting around on his crutches as though balancing himself. He'd said his piece – regardless of it being a wise move or not. Now, it was time to reap the consequences.

'You think I'd let you run around like a headless chicken and endanger the lives of my men, Soap?' Price finally said, chuckling. He gave him a brief once-over, expression flickering oddly when his eyes landed on Soap's compression bandage. It was gone so fast that Soap dismissed it as a trick of his sleep-deprived mind. 'As soon as that leg's healed, the boys are going to put you through the mincer. They'll grind you into the dirt until you get it right. You'll either learn the ropes, or you'll leave. I won't waste time teaching a lost cause how to breathe again.'

That… was not what he'd been expecting.

Soap blinked, carefully keeping his face schooled in neutrality. The fact that he felt strangely happy at the thought of being put through more grueling training spoke to how warped he was becoming, but he couldn't help the reaction. Price's words were laced with disdain, annoyance, but also with an underlying promise that let Soap know that his past few minutes of speaking without a filter had been worth it.

'Just as long as we're on the same page, Sir,' he said, cottoning on to why Gaz's unique brand of dealing with Price was so effective. He allowed himself to grin when Price cocked an eyebrow, silently questioning Soap's lighter tone. 'I wouldn't want to see such big, strong lads playing nursemaid for too long. It might give you a bad reputation.'

Price grunted, shaking his head at the cheek. 'You'll do, Soap,' he said, picking up the pen he'd long since discarded. 'So long as you keep that spine. Now, sit your arse down before you fall. We aren't going to wait forever for you to get back on your feet.'

'Aye, Sir,' Soap said, glancing around for a chair. When he finally settled into one after some awkward maneuvering, he brought his lukewarm coffee to his lips, suddenly finding that he no longer needed it.


	3. Prompt: Rain

**Prompt: **Rain**  
><strong>**Characters: **Ghost, Roach**  
>Timeline: <strong>Post-Loose Ends [AU]**  
><strong>**Words: **1035  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Warning: <strong>Angst

#3

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><p><em>Pitter, patter, pitter, patter… Thump, thump, thump.<em>

_It's raining; thick, harsh droplets pouring out of the sky, creating curtains of water that reach as far the eye can see. It bites into the earth, the mud, the thin fabric of his fatigues, soaking through to the skin, and he grits his teeth, trying to stop them from chattering. _

_The noise will be too loud, even in this torrential downpour, and he can't afford to give them away. _

_Russian voices murmur above his head; the squelch of combat boots stiffening his spine as they walk closer to his hiding place. There's the soft whine of a dog, rattling chains – the abrupt, sharp sound of the mutt shaking wet from its fur. One of them snaps something, tone indicating protest. Ghost listens as they continue to meander about, his suspicions confirmed – the dog can't catch his scent in this weather; their bloodied trail having long been washed away._

_They were safe._

_Or they would be, if Roach could keep his gob shut. _

_Another pained moan makes it through the man's blood-flecked lips, his feverish gaze staring up at Ghost without really seeing. Ghost is quick to silence him with a gloved hand clapped over his mouth, fingers viciously biting into his friend's face as he tries to muffle the noise. Roach doesn't understand why – hasn't since they first toppled into this cold, sopping hell. But Ghost remains an unrelenting force against the man's panicked struggles, right up until they cease all together._

_They have to be quiet, still. It's the only way they'll get out of here – if they can get out of here._

_He's lying on top of Roach. When they'd first stumbled upon the ditch, Roach had been barely able to stand, his legs so close to giving out that it was only Ghost's supporting presence which kept him upright. There'd been no doubt in his mind that Roach wouldn't be able to hold on to consciousness for much longer, which meant that if Ghost had gone into the deep, narrow trench first, Roach's dead weight would have prevented him from coming out. Ghost might have still had his wits about him, but he was tired, injured and close to succumbing himself. He wouldn't be able to lift his friend – he'd suffocate._

_He knew that even if he didn't manage to crawl out, leaving Roach to suffer the slow, cruel fate in his place – he was the only one with a chance. So he'd thrown Roach in and followed him down, collapsing some of the ditch onto them in a hasty attempt at camouflage. If he could keep his eyes open, his brain working, then maybe, maybe, it would be alright._

_That's what he tells himself as he all but crushes Roach into the dirt, the man so weak that he can only take the punishment and plead for mercy with quiet, unintelligible noises Ghost has already steeled himself against. He listens to them with a heavy heart, closing his eyes when he can't stand to look at Roach's crumpled, distressed face anymore._

_Just a little longer. As soon as the patrol's moved on, he'll get them out. He'll get them out and get Roach to a fucking doctor and it'll be okay. He'll __**make **__it okay. _

_The dog whuffles nearby; nose sniffing the air. Ghost is suddenly gripped by fear, ice running through his veins as several footsteps start towards them in a terrifying tempo. At least two of the soldiers are closing in on the edge of their ditch, speaking lowly as they canvas the area. A bird chirps, taking off with flapping wings and rustling leaves. They pause. He wonders if they're watching it, subconsciously holding his breath. The dog barks, startled. _

_Somebody laughs._

_Heavy boots stomp back the way they came. Ghost inhales, barely feeling relief as his lungs stop burning. Beneath him, Roach is unmoving save for his shallow, labored breathing. Ghost can feel the man's heartbeat thrumming sluggishly against him; the sensation a comfort when howling winds drown out any other signs of life. He opens his eyes, searching Roach's pale face._

_He's unconscious._

_Ghost's gut clenches painfully, logic telling him what he refuses to believe. His fingers relinquish their grip on Roach before tentatively tugging back an eyelid. Nothing. He slaps the man's cheek as hard as he dares. No response. _

_The Russians are retreating. Slow and unhurried. Ghost strains his ears, following their progress as well as he can with hearing alone. He needs to move, but he can't – not until they're out of sight, out of earshot. Far enough away that the dog won't notice them. A zip is tugged down – one of them lags behind to take a piss._

_Only a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and they'll be gone. Just a few more minutes. Hold on, Roach. We're almost there. Just hold on, mate – promise me you will._

_He doesn't realise he's whispering it, forehead against forehead, desperation leaving cracks in his voice. There's no future for him – stolen by the General who betrayed them both. He has nothing – nothing but Roach. A friend, a brother. Someone he can save – something that gives him purpose. As long as he has a purpose, he can keep going. He can keep going, and –_

– _Pants are being pulled up, belt jingling. Steps trail off in the direction of the others, getting softer, quieter, more distant. Ghost waits until he can't pick them up at all, waits longer just to be safe – then he shifts. His body is sore, heavy. Exhaustion has seeped into every pore, every muscle. But he needs to get Roach up – needs to get him out. Dirt tumbles down around him as he stands. He pauses, glances around. They're alone._

_He reaches for Roach, taking the man's limp, dead weight – shouldering it._

_It's time to go, brother._

_Hold on._

_I'll get us out of this shithole, if it's the last thing I fucking do._

_I promise._

_I'll get you out of here._

_Just hold on._

_Keep breathing._

_Please._

_Don't leave me alone._

_You know what happens when I'm alone._

_Pitter, patter, pitter, patter… Thump… tha-thump… thump…_

_._

_._

_._

_._

'_Gary?'_


	4. Prompt: Enemy

**Prompt: **Enemy**  
><strong>**Characters: **Soap, Slip [OC], Yuri, Price [mentioned]**  
>Timeline: <strong>Post-MW2 [AU]**  
><strong>**Words: **4690  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T

#4

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><p>'That is not a good idea, MacTavish.' Yuri said, eyes flicking up from the book he held in his hand. He was leaning against the door Soap had intended to slip through, the picture of casual indifference. 'I know you are angry, but taking it out on him will not do you any good. If you cannot trust me on that, then trust in your own experience. Torture blackens the soul, regardless of whether or not they deserve it.'<p>

There was a brief pause; Soap sizing up the Russian with a dark look on his face. Clearly the man was sharper than he'd originally thought if he'd been the only one to anticipate Soap coming here. They hadn't spoken much. In the weeks after Shepherd's death, Soap had been bedridden, suffering through Loyalist medics and unmasked pain day in and day out as he'd slowly recovered. He'd barely had the energy to deal with the people he knew, let alone those he didn't.

He still didn't have the energy, really. Even now, he was exhausted on his feet, the journey down to the basement having taken more than he'd been prepared for. Yuri would have no problem keeping him from the other side of the door, if he chose to.

'It's Soap, mate,' he finally corrected the man, running an agitated hand through his hair as he did so. He hadn't been MacTavish, Captain or otherwise, since he'd unwittingly led his men to unbridled slaughter. 'Just Soap. And I'm not here for my pound of flesh. I think we both know that I'd blow over if a strong enough breeze hit. It's not exactly the best state to be in when you're planning to shaft the Geneva Convention, now, is it?'

'No,' Yuri agreed after a moment, head tilting to the side. 'Though if I am to believe you, I would need to know what it is you plan to do. Barring revenge, there is not much else he can offer you. Unless you are in the business of absolving a man of his sins. I do not mean to offend, but even with the cross around your neck, you do not seem to be the forgiving type.'

Soap bared his teeth at the thought. 'Not even close.'

'Then you would understand my curiosity, no?' Yuri smiled, all razor sharp edges. 'Personally, I do not care much for his wellbeing. But Captain Price… he seems to care a great deal about his survival. I cannot imagine he would be pleased if I simply let you walk in there without a reason.'

'Price has already brought you to heel, has he?' Soap muttered, irritation mounting when Yuri didn't seem phased by the slight. Perhaps he didn't understand it. Clenching his jaw, Soap rolled his shoulders before releasing an exasperated breath. This wasn't going to progress without some kind of concession on his part. 'I want… information. Answers to things only he can tell me.'

'You think he will cooperate?'

'I'd like to find out.'

Yuri considered him. 'Why would he talk to you? What makes you think this is something he would give without several bloody hours spent prying it from his tongue?'

'A fool's notion… childish, maybe…' Soap shrugged, unable to meet the gaze boring into him for the next few seconds. 'That we weren't the only ones who didn't know what was going to happen until they were told to pull the trigger.'

Silence. Yuri might not have been there for the events that had taken place, but he'd no doubt heard the finer details; from Nikolai, or Price. He wouldn't miss the significance of what was being asked – wouldn't miss the painful, burning desire to simply understand why.

A loud, deft snap of a book being closed – Yuri pushed away from the door, tucking the dog-eared novel into his jacket. Soap found himself searching the Russian's face out of morbid interest, trying to detect traces of whatever emotion had chipped away at his resolve. He never found any.

'… I am going for a walk. It is far too stuffy down here.' Footsteps paused – the man not quite turning around to call over his shoulder. 'If our friend is… _gone_, when I get back, then I will remember exactly what happened before I left. I will make sure you remember it too… _Soap_.'

* * *

><p>The basement was a tiny, cramped room, with its furnishings stripped bare and a single, flickering light hanging from the ceiling. Its walls and floor were made of solid concrete, though cracks, mixed with the odd flash of green, suggested the waterproofing had failed a while ago. Soap quietly closed the door behind him, lowering the latch.<p>

It was cold; goose bumps rising along the exposed parts of his arms as he stepped further inside, his weakened body unable to adapt to rapid changes in temperature as quickly as it once had. He rubbed at them idly; his gaze focused solely on the short, ragged man slumped before him. Whatever Price had done to bring this one in, it hadn't been kind – purpled skin speaking to a brutality that went beyond the usual snatch n' grab routine.

Not feeling even an inkling of sympathy, Soap moved towards the man. He had his hands pulled behind his back, wrists bound together and tied to the backing of his chair. Each ankle was strapped to one of the chair's legs, preventing him from kicking out. From his lack of response at the presence looming over him, Soap guessed that he wasn't quite with it.

Leaning forward, Soap took in the prisoner's left eyelid, which was swollen shut, before promptly slapping him across the face. 'Wake up.'

The reaction was immediate. With a grunt, the man snapped awake, his head jerking upwards, hazel eye wide in alarm. He blinked rapidly, trying to get a clear picture of his latest threat. Soap stared back at him, confusion furrowing his brow as he was hit with a sudden sense of familiarity. He'd seen this face before – back in Afghanistan. Back when he'd been staggering around in a sandstorm, waterlogged, a knife clenched in his fist.

He remembered fear turning into anger, his ears having caught the impotent click of a gun as somebody pulled the trigger on an empty magazine. There'd been a survivor from the crash, lying amongst the wreckage, one hand holding onto a wavering pistol. Soap had been ready to slit the bastard's throat, had been ready to witness the man choking on his own blood, lips turning blue, fingers clawing at a gaping neck. But then, he'd seen the eyes. Fogged with terror, on a face that was far, far too young. Tears had cut long, thin trails through grime covered cheeks, and Soap had turned away.

'Well, well,' he said lowly, not entirely sure he believed what he was seeing. 'Fancy meeting you here…'

The man made a choked noise, realization dawning on his features. 'You! _Fuck…_'

'Aye, it's me,' Soap sneered. 'Bet you're wishing you finished the job now, eh?'

Receiving a hastily shaken head in answer, Soap let out a derisive snort, knowing the gesture was only made to appease him.

'No. I didn't… I mean, I don't-'

'Save it,' Soap barked, hardly interested in bullshit excuses fuelled by self-preservation. He straightened, crossing his arms. 'I let you walk because you weren't worth the effort. Figured the desert would do the job for me, but here you are. Like a bloody roach that doesn't know when to die.'

The man eyed him nervously, keeping his gob shut. He couldn't have been older than early twenties. A grunt from Shepherd's mercenary force – intended as little more than cannon fodder. The already cracking composure was a clear testament to the fact. This one hadn't been built to endure. Five minutes with somebody who'd spent the finer points of their career persuading harder men to talk would have this wannabe spilling his guts.

_Lucky that your mates topped Riley, eh?_ Soap thought, pang of loss quickly dissolving into righteous anger. _He'd have you singing like a canary with its bollocks nailed to a cross._

Soap had never quite developed the stomach for torture that his lieutenant had. Ghost had had a knack for taking apart a man that even he'd been wary of, despite it having its uses. He'd never had a taste for suffering beyond the necessary.

'Please…' Slip's hoarse voice broke into his thoughts, as though the younger man had somehow sensed his weakness. 'I don't know what you want from me, but I'll do anything…'

Soap could only look at him for so long, the pleading expression making his gut clench. Beating a man in a fight was one thing, but beating them when they were so completely at his mercy…

'… I didn't come down here to haul you over the coals,' he finally said, the fight leeching out of him. He wasn't a sadist. 'But I do want answers. If you give them to me, I won't mess up that pretty face of yours any more than I have to.'

'… And if I can't answer your questions?'

'We'll cross that bridge if we come to it.'

Slip gave a weak nod, apparently understanding that was as good as he was going to get. 'What… do you want to know?'

'Afghanistan.'

It was an order; sharp and demanding. Soap might have walked in with a single, solid purpose, but that was quickly changing; the situation forcing him to think on his feet.

'We – I… I was picked up by the USAF,' Slip began, obedient once he'd understood the request. 'They sent out a recon team after Site Hotel Bravo went up in smoke. Brought me and couple other survivors back to Bagram Airfield where we got patched up, questioned...'

'I imagine you had quite the tale to tell,' Soap remarked flatly, already knowing where this was headed. He wasn't disappointed – the man unable to meet his gaze, swallowing thickly.

'We didn't… tell them everything. Before we were taken in for questioning, we were met by an old Colonel – said he was a friend of Shepherd's. He told us that it wouldn't be in our best interests to… well, to tell the whole story.'

'So you lied.'

'… Yeah.'

Soap wasn't surprised. There wasn't much honor to be found in those interested only in their own survival. 'The Colonel… Who was he?'

'His name was – is, David Hayne. He had an in with Shepherd – knew all about the Shadow Company, knew all about… you.'

'Me?'

'The 141. He knew… the truth.'

'Of course he did,' Soap muttered. Shepherd had kept his hand in quite a few honey pots. It was no surprise that there were people interested in keeping his secrets. 'What did he want?'

'He came to us after we'd been released from interrogation – offered us a job. Apparently Shepherd's… benefactors were still interested in what Shadow Company had to offer.'

'A bunch of guns for hire,' Soap said disparagingly. 'Who wouldn't be interested in that, eh?'

'It wasn't like-'

'So you took the job,' Soap overrode him, an edge in his tone that warned against any kind of justification for his actions. 'Which explains how you ended up in our little corner of the world. Taking on the FLDR, was it? Price was wondering why a rag-tag group of Shadow Company survivors were going after African militia – but it turns out you were on somebody else's pay roll.'

'We were hunting an arms dealer…'

'Amare Jakande,' Soap supplied, knowing exactly who he was talking about.

'You got to him first.'

'Being lauded internationally as a war criminal means you have to be packing quite a bit of firepower to survive. That kind of reputation makes it difficult to buy, even from shady backstreet vendors. Slotting one more bad guy to fix our problem seemed like a good solution,' Soap rolled his shoulders, wholly unconcerned. 'Besides, we'd heard that there were some jack-booted American thugs out looking for him. Figured we could kill two birds with one stone…'

'Is that what you plan on doing?' The man rasped, staring up at him with his one good eye. His face was pale, anxious. 'Killing me?'

'If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead,' Soap said, tone cold, matter-of-fact. 'Price would have put you down, but you're more useful to us alive. Even more so with you being the only one we managed to snag.'

Slip heard the unspoken question, gaze dropping from Soap's shoulder to his boots. '… I didn't make it to the chopper in time.'

Price hadn't mentioned why he'd only returned with one unconscious, blindfolded captive when there'd been five ripe for the taking. Soap had been forced to sit that particular rodeo out, gleaning the bare minimum of details from his superior before the man had made himself scarce. It'd probably hurt his pride, somewhat, to have so many slip through his fingers – and, Soap thought with the traitorous beginnings of a smile, to have the one he did catch practically handed to him on a silver platter.

'They left you behind,' Soap said, letting out a harsh bark of laughter. The man flinched. 'No loyalty amongst mercenaries, eh?'

Pain and humiliation flashed across the man's face. 'They found out I'd been on Shepherd's Pave Low – getting a free ride while he torched everybody else. I – I didn't want to be there, man! I was escorting him. I had to get in. If I'd known that… And then what the hell was I supposed to do? Hayne wouldn't have let me walk away…'

'Probably should have worked a little harder to keep that one a secret,' Soap remarked, not even a hint of sympathy in his voice. It wasn't hard to figure out why the man had cut himself off. _If I'd known that…_ He would have climbed into the chopper anyway, because he didn't have the spine to go out alongside his comrades. Soap would have left him behind, too. 'I suppose you have a name, Chump.'

'Colton West,' was the quiet response, after he'd flinched for a second time. The nickname hadn't been lost on him. 'But most of them… called me Slip.'

Reciprocating was second-nature. 'I'm-'

'John MacTavish,' Slip finished for him. 'Captain of the 141.'

'Hardly a Captain, considering that most of my men were slaughtered like pigs by the same people trusted to watch their backs.'

Slip heard the animosity, stiffening. Soap couldn't rightfully blame the 141's brutal massacre on the man – not when he personally knew how good Shepherd was at manipulating the men who'd served under him. That's why Shepherd picked them young, using ego to sway them with promises of power and glory – perfectly malleable for a General with his own, questionable cause.

But even so, Colton West was an unfortunate symbol of the organization that'd singlehandedly destroyed Soap's past, present and future. Shadow Company had laid a river of innocent blood at his feet for which he would be forever judged upon, and Slip was an outlet of convenience.

From Slip's audible silence, he knew it, too.

Soap had balled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms. _Get a hold of yourself_. _Don't make him into a martyr. He did what he was told._

As far as Soap knew, Slip hadn't spilled any blood.

_Shepherd's the one you want. And you slotted the bastard. _

The sharp reminder of an empty magazine nearly shattered his calm.

_Orders. If it was Price, you would have followed them too._

Soap inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head.

_If it was you, then Simon, Chris, Gary – they would have done it without question._

That took his mind somewhere he didn't necessarily want it to be, summoning a mental image of curly, brown hair and roguish dimples. Before he could register what he was doing, his mouth started moving, words falling heedlessly from his lips.

'I had a young sergeant under my command, once…'

He wasn't sure where he was going; months of sadness, guilt and rage driving him forward. It wasn't so much a need to get pent-up emotions of his chest – rather a desire to share the pain with his captive audience, to make him understand what he'd done.

'…He was about your age. Plucked from an American EOD squad because of his aptitude for pyrotechnics. The cheeky bugger always had a grin on his face, which pissed off some of the other lads – especially when he phased out all the other candidates to become our lead demolitions expert. Shepherd stepped on quite a few toes with that decision, but Roach – Gary, was good. He deserved the promotion.'

Soap shook his head ruefully. 'Of all the boys, though, he clashed the most with Riley. Simon Riley – my 2IC. He had one hell of a reputation, that bloke. But what people didn't know, was just how damaged the man was underneath. It would be hard to tell, unless you knew him before. He was a different person back then.'

'Somewhere along the line, though, Riley got twisted up and mangled into something barely recognizable. He was dark, angry – a shadow of his former self. But still the best 2IC I ever had. Maybe I did more harm than good keeping him on,' Soap chuckled, the sound almost bitter. 'I guess it hardly matters now…'

'In any case, he was the polar opposite of Gary – the two of them were constantly at loggerheads with each other. I was about ready to toss one of them out the bloody door after four months of it, but then it changed.'

A heavy sigh. 'I don't know what happened, exactly. They never told me personal details – just handed in a report that covered the incident, in-line with basic procedure. It was a standard op, but something clearly went pear-shaped. Gary came back with a haunted look in his eyes that he never quite managed to shake, and Riley – well. I've never known the man to be concerned over anything, but he trailed after Gary like he was afraid the man was going to disappear.'

Soap tucked his hands into his pockets, staring blankly into the distance. 'They were never apart for long after that. Gary became a surrogate brother, of sorts – Riley had lost his little brother years ago, but the instincts were still there. I couldn't put one on a squad and not the other – it would send them both into a right tizzy. So when we were planning our assault teams to take out Makarov, it was second nature to place them together. Of course, it didn't help that Riley hated Price.'

He snorted, unable to keep the regret from slowly bleeding into his features. 'We'd only just pulled Price out of a Russian Gulag. Riley hadn't had time to warm up to him yet – didn't trust him, was convinced he didn't have their best interests at heart. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Price taking risks – he just didn't agree with Price taking risks around Gary. He figured that if he took Gary with him, then he'd be able to watch his back. Keep him from getting burnt.'

Soap finally glanced back at Slip, staring at him with an intensity that refused to let the other man look away. '… Now they're both dead. Buried in shallow graves – forgotten. Not even a memento to return to their families. And here I am – one of the _lucky_ ones. It would have killed Riley, knowing that his decision led to Gary's death. I'm not sure if he'd be able to live with himself. It's probably more merciful that he never had to – for him, and for you.'

The meaning was clear – Slip must have been blessed to land himself the good Catholic boy, instead of his damaged lieutenant. He'd be screaming around a mouthful of blood in other circumstances. Soap wanted him to know that, to know how much worse things could have gone – how much worse off Slip deserved to be.

Soap closed the gap between them when Slip didn't utter a word – not in defense, apology, or explanation, as he'd silently demanded. He pulled his hand from his pocket, noting the way Slip blanched at the action, obviously expecting some form of retribution. The alarm dissolved into confusion a moment later, after Soap tugged free his wallet. He opened it – digging out a small photograph from its depths.

It was a picture of him and a few of his boys in Afghanistan, decked out in sunglasses, scarves and devilish grins. He dangled it in front of Slip, so close that the man went cross-eyed trying to see it. 'You and your mates murdered these men in cold blood. I want to know _why_.'

Slip licked his lips, visibly anxious. 'We… we were ordered…'

'That isn't what I asked,' Soap snarled, making Slip jump, the man's shoulders jerking painfully. 'I bloody know what Shepherd ordered you to do. What I want to know is why. What reason did he give you that was good enough to justify turning on your own?'

'He… told-'

Soap could have shaken him; Slip's hesitance starting to seriously piss him off. 'Speak up, West. Before I fucking _insist_.'

'He told us that the Task Force had used Joseph Allen to inflame international tensions,' Slip managed to gasp, eager to prove he didn't need persuading. 'He said that you'd sent him to Makarov like a lamb to slaughter – trying to provoke a war.'

Soap listened, unmoving. His mind was whirring; making the unseen connection between Shepherd's heralded prodigy and the brutal slaying of civilians at Zakhaev International Airport which had incited everything. He'd already known the good General had played a role in setting up the stage for the world's next great conflict, but it hadn't occurred to him that the bastard had been silently offing his men – sacrificing them over the years to further his own ends.

'Go on,' he prompted roughly, when Slip paused long enough for Soap to realize he was stalling. He hadn't been as composed as he'd thought.

'… Shepherd said Allen was just a guy like us, trying to do the best by his country. He didn't know what you had planned for him until it was too late,' Slip took a steadying breath, steeling himself. 'By the time Shepherd found out about the 141's betrayal, thousands of Americans had already been killed. A number that only went up when Price launched the missile in Petropavlovsk…'

'Which is when he told you to top us,' Soap finished, shaking his head in disbelief. To hear the tale that Shepherd had spun… it infuriated him, the shock he couldn't stop himself feeling – because despite everything, he'd _trusted _the man – quickly adding fuel to the fire. 'And like good little brainwashed soldiers, you did.'

'How were we supposed to know any different?' Slip tried to defend their actions, desperate. He knew he'd fanned the flames, knew this wasn't going to end well, but apparently couldn't stop himself from taking the last step over the edge. 'He told us you were traitors…'

Soap slammed his hands down onto the chair arms, face dark with fury. 'You fucking think I'd do that to one of my men? That I'd sell out your country? Start a war that would butcher thousands of innocent men, women and children?'

'I-it's what he told us,' Slip choked out, nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. The argument sounded weak, even to his own ears – like a child that'd gotten caught doing wrong on the whim of an older sibling.

'What reason did he give you?' Soap spat. 'That justified us turning on our own and going against everything we stood for? Everything we swore to protect?'

'He… never gave us one.'

It was said with no small amount of bafflement, as if the man hadn't put much thought into it and wasn't sure why. It was such a simple question to ask: critical in determining motivation, in fostering understanding about the enemy, in anticipating their movements. Slip looked bewildered, realization dawning slowly – a pawn, finally comprehending their worth.

'Too fucking right he didn't,' Soap said, sotto voce, as he drove his point home. 'But you followed. Murdering good men simply because you were told to. Blind fucking robots willing to do anything for a shred of validation.'

Slip, who'd pressed himself reflexively against the back of his chair when Soap invaded his space, went lax. He scoured Soap's face, desperately searching. For a lie, perhaps – something that would wash off the blood now dripping from his hands. 'I'm sorry, man,' he eventually croaked, looking so spent that Soap briefly wondered if it would have been kinder to hit him. 'I didn't know. I just… didn't know…'

The wrecked expression on Slip's face told Soap he'd broken something in the man, but he couldn't bring himself to feel an ounce of satisfaction over the fact. Straightening, he stared down at the dejected prisoner for a few seconds before turning away, unable to stand the sight.

He glared furiously at the wall. This was what he'd wanted – but it didn't feel anything like he thought it would.

He just felt… empty.

'What happens now?' Slip – West's soft, defeated voice asked from behind him, when it became clear that Soap had no interest in continuing the conversation. 'What are you going to do with me?'

Part of Soap wanted to ignore him – to walk out the door and forget about the young, shattered little puppet behind him. But he couldn't. They were both just victims of circumstance.

'We need you as evidence – an example,' Soap said tonelessly. 'When the world is ready to hear about Shepherd, we'll trot you out. Uncle Sam will have plenty of questions. I expect you'll happily oblige, considering their methods of persuasion.'

Interrogation. Torture. Soap had accepted those possibilities with a vicious sense of just desserts. Now, he kept his attention on the bland, grey concrete, Slip's reaction to the news remaining unseen.

'… And if they're not ready to hear it? Haynes…'

If it was decided that the truth about Shepherd was too damaging to come to light… they'd all be well and truly shagged. Carrying around dangerous secrets on a loose tongue was the quickest way of getting your head stuck on a pike.

'We'll get snuffed, won't we?' Slip said, shaky. Maybe it had finally clicked – the fact that even if he was rescued, his own country would be willing to close the blinds on him to keep things quiet. His days were numbered, no matter what. 'In some dingy little CIA black site… _Jesus_…'

'Nobody's getting snuffed,' Soap heard himself snap. He couldn't say why, exactly, but the fear in the man's voice was starting to grate. 'If anyone's wringing your bloody neck, it'll be me. That's my fucking privilege…'

And it was. Slip owed Soap his life.

There was sudden silence; then a slow, raggedly drawn breath.

'… You'd make it quick?'

Soap felt his eyes widen a fraction. For one long, long moment, he was still, quietly working to erase his reaction. He hadn't expected that question at all; sounding hesitant, hopeful. It dropped a heavy weight on his shoulders, the request leaving him tired, drained. He'd mercy killed before. Ending minutes, hours, of needless suffering in the blink of an eye.

But for a man whose suffering he could justify?

'If it came to that,' Soap finally said, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. He met Slip's gaze; caught the stricken lines etched into pale skin, the silent plea burning in too-bright hazel. '… I would.'

Because he couldn't justify it.

Ten years his younger, following orders like every other recruit in the armed forces. It wasn't his fault the man giving them was aggrieved with insanity. Soap could, grudgingly, see that. Even if he had to actively work for it.

'… Thank you.'

Soap nodded once before leaving, the gratitude tasting bitter on his tongue.


	5. Prompt: Broken

**Prompt: **Broken**  
><strong>**Characters: **Soap, Ghost, Shepherd, Various 141 Members, Price [mentioned]**  
>Timeline: <strong>Post-MW, Pre-MW2**  
><strong>**Words: **11232  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T

#5

* * *

><p>Riley comes to him broken.<p>

It's a wonder, really, how the man manages to stand there at all, with his jagged, bleeding edges and darkness blackening whatever's left intact. MacTavish puts down his pen, the requisitions order lying forgotten on his desk as he surveys the 141's latest recruit standing in front of his desk. Riley is at attention; tall and rigid, with shadowed eyes that stare straight through him, cold, angry, and laying bare the monster beneath.

Not for the first time, MacTavish questions Shepherd's choices. The task force needs competent men, not raw, gaping wounds. He's still trying to decide how to handle this new… _development_ when the task is plucked from his hands; Riley losing his patience in record time.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

MacTavish manages a wan smile, mentally adding _remarkably_ _short fuse_ to his rapidly expanding list of problems. It's only been a minute. "I did," he agrees after a beat, noting the twitching muscles in Riley's jaw. "We didn't get a chance to meet before Shepherd recruited you to the cause. How are you settling in?"

Riley looks irritated by the question, or perhaps he is just taking exception to MacTavish in general. "Fine, sir."

Short and abrupt. MacTavish doesn't realize he's gotten his answer until a tense silence washes over them both, not used to this standoffish kind of response. The men that'd past by him so far were a little more chatty – or at least a little more driven by deference. He barely stops himself from massaging the bridge of his nose, unwilling to break his calm facade in the face of an unknown entity. "No problems, then, I take it?"

"None, sir."

MacTavish accepts that with a nod. "I heard Shepherd introduced you to the rest of the team while I was off-site. What did you think?"

It's an awful lot like drawing blood from a stone, but he needs to get a good impression of the man before he starts making decisions. _He'd make a decent lieutenant, MacTavish, _Shepherd had insisted, as he'd shoved the personnel file into his hands. _His record is outstanding. _

Physical prowess and skill count for very little, however, when there isn't a sound mind to back it up. MacTavish doesn't jump to assumptions lightly, but Riley isn't exactly conducive to that way of thinking.

"Sir?" Riley eventually asks, not quite understanding the question. Or not knowing how to answer it. MacTavish can read him well enough to know that socializing probably hadn't been a priority.

"What were your thoughts on the rest of the team?" MacTavish clarifies, leaning back in his seat; the chair groaning under his repositioned weight. "You're going to be working with them. I imagine you've made some judgments…"

That, at least, was a given. MacTavish knows that Riley would have measured the 141's operators, one by one, detailing their strengths and weaknesses. Would have thrown them under rigorous examination and, going by Riley's reluctance to say anything, found them wanting.

"They're capable soldiers, sir," Riley replies, finally unclenching his jaw long enough for the words to escape. "They wouldn't be here otherwise."

MacTavish cocks an eyebrow. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Doesn't it, sir?"

"No," MacTavish says, mildly amused. Riley certainly knew how to evade a conversation. "I'm asking whether they measure up to your standards, lieutenant. Not mine."

"Your standards are the only ones that matter here, sir."

MacTavish chuckles darkly at that, shaking his head. "I don't have to tell you how communication can make or break a team, Riley. I know where you came from. You've learned that lesson already."

"If you say so, sir."

"Everyone's opinion matters here," MacTavish tells him, voice heavy with command. It's a trick he's picked up through years of exposure; though there's only one man he thinks of when channeling this particular brand of authority. "Understood?"

Riley doesn't seem particularly phased by it, but he answers in the affirmative just the same. "Yes, sir."

"Good," MacTavish retrieves his pen, letting his attention return to his desk. He's got the beginnings of a headache and too much goodwill eroded to continue on in this vein. Riley is a problem he'll solve another day. "You're dismissed, lieutenant."

Loud footsteps and the click of a closing door are quick to follow his dismissal; Simon Riley's version of a goodbye about as brutal as the rest of him.

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

* * *

><p>"He's a liability."<p>

It's the closest MacTavish has ever let himself come to snapping at his superior, tone laced with anger and no small amount of reproach. Riley is damaged goods; twisted up and mangled into something too dangerous to be placed on the task force, let alone in a high-ranked position. MacTavish knows this with a certain clarity the good General doesn't seem willing to grasp.

"He's an exceptional soldier, MacTavish," Shepherd counters, barely paying him any mind as he peruses through a manila folder. Probably reviewing the next cracked sod to burden MacTavish with. "You'd be lucky to have him."

"Respectfully, sir – the man's one wrong turn away from snapping. I agree that his record is exemplary, but it's also incriminating. He's a risk that I'm not willing to take."

"It's not a matter of whether or not you're willing to take the risk, Captain," Shepherd says flatly, finally glancing up from the documents in his hands. "It's a matter of getting the 141 operational. We have the resources, but nobody to use them."

"So we're going to start taking stray dogs off the street?"

"Riley might not be a perfect fit, but he outshines every other candidate we've currently got. If you don't want him, that's your call, but remember – I can't put you in the field without adequate manpower."

MacTavish frowns. "… Are you saying you'd bench us, sir?"

"Not at all," Shepherd answers, his smile barely lessening the edge in his tone. "I'm just saying that it would be in the task force's best interest to give him a chance."

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Riley makes the team. MacTavish doesn't tell him how.<p>

They call him Ghost, the name stemming from the haunted look Riley occasionally wears and the mask he uses to hide it. Most of the lads learn pretty early on to avoid their lieutenant; his stony silences and acerbic tongue making for unpleasant company. MacTavish counts his lucky stars that Ghost returns the sentiment; making himself scarce when he's not needed. There's yet to be an incident of bad blood between anyone, despite a few close calls.

After one particularly hostile occasion, MacTavish finds himself walking through the dorm where most of his men slept, seeking out the short-tempered lieutenant. Ghost answers his door on the second knock, face blanking when he sees who's on the other side.

"Did you need something, sir?"

MacTavish shakes his head, not here out of obligation. "Thought I'd stop by and touch base," he says, eyes subconsciously scouring the man's room through the narrow gap it was framed in. Riley tugs his door to cut off MacTavish's field of view. "See how you're doing."

"Is this about the mess, sir?"

MacTavish shrugs, no longer caught off-guard by the bluntness. He'd had plenty of time to grow accustomed to it over the passing weeks. "It looked like you were about to wipe the floor with Meat, lieutenant. Care to explain?"

"He's a hothead, sir," Riley answers, expression tightening. There's a toxic cocktail of emotions lurking just beneath the surface – one that MacTavish never wants to see out in the open. "You know how he is."

He can't argue that point. Meat is a pain in the arse on his good days and fucking impossible on his bad ones; the American having a penchant for rubbing people the wrong way. "I do," MacTavish says, brow creasing as he frowns at his subordinate. Whether or not Meat deserved a hiding was irrelevant. Commanding officers disciplined with revoked privileges and menial tasks, not fists. "But he's never gotten under your skin like that before."

Riley shifts in a sign of rarely seen discomfort. Suddenly the cause of the lieutenant's outburst seems a lot more like a deep-seated, personal issue than the bad judgment of an obnoxious sergeant. "I don't know what to tell you, sir. I was having a shit day."

"Anything I should know about?"

"No, sir."

Of course Riley isn't going to tell him anything. MacTavish inhales deeply, not particularly bothered if his frustration is easy to see. He crosses his arms and pins Riley with an intense look, tone brooking no argument. "In that case, you're going to apologize."

"I… what?" Riley actually appears taken aback, his eyes widening a fraction at the demand. "Sir, I don't think that's-"

MacTavish cuts him off, voice sharp. "We all have bad days, lieutenant. But you can't go pulling rank on somebody simply because you've gone and got your knickers in a twist… Unless you have a valid reason for your behavior that you'd like to share?"

They both know Riley does. It's right there in the strained lines of his face; in the bed covers rumpled and strewn across his bunk; in the glass of water and half-empty bottle of pills by his bed. But Riley is still far from opening up – too closed off and distant to accept the olive branch MacTavish is offering.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin, agitated line before inclining his head in apparent surrender. "I understand, sir."

MacTavish regards him silently for a few seconds, noting the sheer lack of remorse. He sighs. "You need to start making an effort with them, Riley. You can't build up a rapport if you keep shutting people out like this…"

"They don't need to like me to do their job, sir," Riley replies; stiffened posture delivering a subtle warning. He steps out into the hallway, closing his door behind himself. "If that's all…?"

MacTavish continues to block his path, disappointed. "Riley…"

"I'd like to go and get this bullshit over with, sir, before I change my mind."

If there'd been an opportunity here at all, then he's missed it, Riley looking every bit as unreachable as he had the day he'd walked into MacTavish's office. Grudgingly, MacTavish steps aside, allowing his subordinate to shoulder past him.

Sometimes you had to lose a battle to win the war.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>"Sir," MacTavish greets Shepherd one morning, surprised by the General's appearance in the 141's barracks. He rises to his feet, leaving a bowl of slop behind on the table. "I didn't know you were on site this morning."<p>

"I doubt they would have had time to tell you," the man replies, all business. "If you can spare a moment, Captain, there's something we need to discuss."

MacTavish nods curtly. "Of course, sir."

"Very good. Walk with me."

They end up on a platform overlooking the firing range; the sun slowly appearing from behind the horizon as they finish climbing the stairs. There's morning dew on the grass; birds tittering in the trees and several of the early risers already running laps of the base. MacTavish can't help the small grin as Toad outstrips Rook for the second time, much to the Australian's chagrin.

Shepherd watches them too, leaning on the railing in pensive silence as the soldiers jog by the nest. It's only when they're nearly out of sight that he turns back to MacTavish and asks; "How are they coming?"

MacTavish joins him at the rail, folding his arms on top of it. If he was being completely honest, he'd say that there were still several kinks to iron out; some of the men lacking the camaraderie needed for exceptional teamwork. But he knows from experience that Shepherd isn't interested in the 141's progress at that level. In his eyes, that's MacTavish's problem. Shepherd deals in numbers; needing battle-ready forces that he can deploy in response to a threat. As long as they could shoot straight, the General would be happy.

"They'll do," MacTavish finally answers, trying to be fair in his overall assessment. "These past few weeks of PT and training exercises have been good to them. They're leagues above the average army grunt. A few are probably pushing SAS standard."

Shepherd nods approvingly. "Ready for the field, do you think?"

"Yes," MacTavish says, after a brief moment of deliberation. They had their faults, but less-prepared men had gone into the battlefield and come out the other side. Straightening, he turns his attention to the General, interest colouring his tone – the task force were untested to date, and it was high time that changed. "Did you have something in mind, sir?"

"Perhaps," Shepherd says. "At the very least, I need your men on standby. We've managed to get our hands on some Intel regarding one Vladimir Makarov…"

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>MacTavish hadn't intended to put Ghost in play for a fair a little while yet, but circumstances change and suddenly he's faced with a situation he's entirely unprepared for.<p>

The mission itself would see them boarding a vessel exiting Russian waters. They'd be intercepting a shipment sanctioned by the Ultranationalist's de facto leader; its cargo ranging from illicit drugs, to weapons, to trafficking victims. It made sense for the team to have at least one or two men who could speak the language.

Scarecrow is MacTavish's first choice; the American one of his in-house linguistic experts. But three days after Shepherd puts them on alert, the soldier breaks his wrist in a nasty fall. MacTavish watches it happen, alarm rankling through him as Scarecrow somersaults painfully down the hill. It's clear before they reach him that something's wrong, and with his first choice quickly delivered to the infirmary, MacTavish is back to the drawing board.

His second choice is on leave; his third undergoing cold-weather training with a small group of new recruits. The only other bi-lingual soldier on-base is the dark, brooding lieutenant who doesn't play well with others. MacTavish stays in his office for over an hour, the solution sitting in front of him while he downs a glass of whiskey. He grimaces slightly at the taste, and then pours himself another.

MacTavish's hesitance has got nothing to do with Riley's abilities – the man is every bit as exceptional as Shepherd had proclaimed him to be. Ghost has smashed and set his own records on more than one occasion; his name scratched at the top of too many scoreboards to count. From shooting, to survival, to his terrifying aptitude at RTI, Ghost's skills go beyond what even MacTavish is capable of, charisma and leadership being the only exception.

No, there's no question that Ghost is good. But he's also dangerous.

It's not something you can see all the time. Riley was quick to pick up on the things that made MacTavish look twice in his direction, the extra scrutiny forcing him to watch himself around others. For the first few weeks after the lieutenant arrived, he'd run the training course, with enemy and civilian cut outs looming out of windows and doorways, in an almost fugue state. His gun would fire the second he stepped into an area, so quickly that it was hard for MacTavish to belief that he was actually registering his surroundings first. He'd put that idea to the test, sending one of the boy's in to swap the targets' positions before calling Riley to do his run. When Riley had come around a corner and nearly blown the head off a smiling, old lady, MacTavish felt his concern validated. A last minute jerk of the arm had saved the woman, but he never let Riley go through the same course again. Not once.

It's that kind of complacency that gets people killed.

But that isn't all. He remembers other incidents. Small things he might have dismissed on their own, but can't ignore when part of a bigger whole. Like Riley's brief stint in RTI where he escaped his restraints and went after the mock interrogator until a solid knock on the head brought him back into awareness. Or the time he broke two fingers during training and didn't say a word until Archer caught sight of the blood. Or when his temper got the best of him in one of their skirmishes and he openly defied orders, leading to Toad getting shot by the opposing force.

The list goes on; long and detailed, giving MacTavish plenty of reasons to oppose Ghost's deployment in the field. At the heart of it, MacTavish just isn't quite sure if he can trust him there yet.

Too bad he doesn't have much of an option.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Shepherd greenlights them three days later.<p>

MacTavish briefs the team in the missions room; going over the op with a coffee in one hand and a schematic in the other. There's four men plus himself, all listening with rapt attention as he reiterates the finer points. He's already had them practicing on a specialized CQB course, rather like the one he'd been introduced to the SAS with several years ago.

His baptism by fire had been as exhilarating as it was terrifying, though he hopes that this mission doesn't end with quite the same level of shock and awe.

An hour or so passes before they bring an end to the meeting, MacTavish dismissing them to go and do whatever pre-op ritual they need to get into the right headspace. Rook and Chemo are the first to leave, slipping out the door in deep conversation. Meat follows after he's double-checked the equipment list with Ghost on his heels; the lieutenant quick to evacuate when he catches MacTavish looking in his direction. They've got time before they're due on the tarmac, so MacTavish lets him make his escape, deciding to have last words with him before they get airborne.

Of course, Riley has other ideas.

MacTavish doesn't manage to track down his lieutenant; despite his methodical search of the base, checking known haunts and following tips regarding his whereabouts. It's only when he treks down to the equipment room, preparing to kit up, that the man finally surfaces. He's next to Meat, ensuring that the sergeant's buckles and straps are secured, practiced hands fixing any mistakes they come across. MacTavish feels the irritation melt from his features, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that's whispering about diversion tactics and calculated moves.

Pulling on his own gear, MacTavish does a brief equipment check, making sure his men have nothing missing or out of place. He's just finished straightening up Riley when the lieutenant reaches towards him, stopping him in his tracks.

"Sir,' Ghost acknowledges as he pulls a strap taut, returning the favor. MacTavish lets him, watching the man's face. It's the same strained mask he usually wears between the moments where somebody inevitably pisses him off.

Finally, Riley releases him, his gaze automatically flicking up to make eye-contact. The tempered warnings MacTavish intended to deliver sit poised on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down, settling for a pointed look that Riley can't miss.

_Don't fuck this up, lieutenant._

If Riley gets the message, he doesn't show it.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>It kicks off without a hitch, proceeds like clockwork, and then ends in an inevitable, gory bloodbath.<p>

MacTavish spends his exfil plugging Chemo's wounds as best he can; the medic's unresponsive, grey face the only thing stopping him from tearing into the culprit. Riley stays in the back of the pave low; knowing that if he sticks his neck out too close to his Captain, MacTavish will most likely wring it.

Meat is by Chemo's head, murmuring to the downed soldier, voice uncharacteristically soft and soothing as he tries to keep the man conscious. Rook is at his side, radioing Command, demanding a stretcher on the helipad and a medical team on standby. His free hand holds an IV bag in the air; its line tucked into the crook of Chemo's elbow.

The Intel they'd managed to collect lies forgotten on the seats; the price they'd had to pay as sickening as the blood coating their skin.

Deep down, MacTavish knows that the only person he can blame for this is himself. He's the Captain; the commanding officer. It was his orders they were following when things spiraled into the shit – their actions his responsibility. The buck starts, and stops, with him. Laying the blame at somebody else's feet is just bad leadership.

But damn, does Riley deserve it.

MacTavish isn't sure if it was arrogance, or an actual, honest to God fuck up on the lieutenant's part, but Chemo had been in Riley's AO when one of the bastards got lucky. It might have been a little of both. All he knows is that Riley had looked just as horrified as MacTavish felt when the medic's piercing cry rang out; chin grazing his shoulder as he'd glanced back. Riley had been on the frontlines, going lone wolf and not paying even a scrap of attention to the rest of his pack.

Now Chemo's bleeding out on the pave low's floor and MacTavish can't help but bestow judgment between his own worry and the medic's rasping breaths. If Riley had been watching out for him, this might not have happened.

It's not entirely fair, but MacTavish is the one trying to keep Chemo's insides from spilling out.

"You're going to be alright, mate," he's telling the medic, meeting glassy eyes with a reassuring smile. "We're almost there. Just hold on a little longer…"

The aircraft carrier they'd stopped to refuel at on the way is visible on the horizon, through sea spray and dark clouds; getting larger by the second as the pave low closes the distance. They really are almost there; his gut unclenching when they finally land on the deck, engines powering down. He helps haul Chemo onto a stretcher, following close behind the medical team as they wheel the man inside, his fingers sticky and burning as he wipes them on his clothes.

If his mission in the Bering Strait had been their lowest benchmark for success; then they'd undershot it by a bloody mile.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Shepherd calls into the HMAS Hamersley via video conference, one of the ship's crew tracking down MacTavish below deck. He's half-asleep when the young sailor gently shakes him into wakefulness; exhaustion momentarily halting his vigil outside the infirmary. When it's nervously explained that the General is waiting to be debriefed, he slowly drags his aching body out of the chair.<p>

MacTavish orders the sailor to stay put in case Chemo's condition changes before trudging up the narrow staircase and losing his way in one too many corridors. By the time he finally makes it to the room full of computers and flashing tech, his patience is gone, his mood sour, and his ensuing report terse.

"… Congratulations, MacTavish," the General remarks when MacTavish's hoarse voice tapers off, approval in the man's eyes. "This Intel will help us disrupt the Ultranationalist's trade routes and cripple their supply. We restrict their resources and they'll get desperate. Desperate men make mistakes, and we'll be there to exploit them…"

MacTavish nods. "Aye, sir. We will…"

"This is the beginning of the end for the mad dog, Captain," Shepherd says, radiating confidence. "But we'll discuss that later. For now, you'll stay onboard the Hamersley until we airlift you out tomorrow with the rest of your team. Chemo, of course, will be evacuated to the nearest medical facility once he's stable. He'll be seen to by the best."

"Thank you, sir."

"We take care of our own," Shepherd reminds him. The General watches him for a moment before shaking his head; wheels scraping against the floor as he rises. "I look forward to seeing your official report, Captain. But until then, get some rest. You're dead on your feet."

MacTavish salutes; the movement lacking its usual grace. "Yes, sir."

"You did good out there, MacTavish. Don't forget that."

The link terminates. MacTavish finds himself staring at a blank screen; the praise leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Chemo makes it; the MEDIVAC vanishing into the night sky with blinking lights and a strong, icy downdraft. MacTavish watches from the deck, a cigarette dangling from his lips.<p>

Despite the mission being coined as a success, he can't help but feel it was a failure; the phantom touch of blood lingering on his hands. It stays with him well after they leave the ship. He's still wiping away invisible remnants as they step onto the tarmac, booted feet dragging across asphalt, the familiar sight of the 141 barracks doing little to raise anyone's spirits. MacTavish pauses long enough murmur a few words of comfort to Rook and clap Meat on the shoulder before disappearing into the solitary confines of his office.

It's late and he's tired, but there's a report waiting to be written and even though he has to blink the blurriness from his vision, he knows that sleep won't come for a while yet. So he settles down at his desk and gets stuck into it, forcing himself to relive the day in vivid, excruciating detail. No matter how many times you've done it before, this kind of thing doesn't get easier and by the end of it, he's holding onto a glass of whiskey, the bottle dangerously close to empty.

MacTavish idly wonders what Price would have done; gaze flicking over to the phone before common sense kicks in. The Old Man will have his guts for garters if MacTavish wakes him up for an earful of drunk, rambling self-pity. Christ, he can practically feel the irritated frown laden with disapproval already…

Putting down his tumbler, MacTavish scrubs a hand over his face before reopening his report, determined to hunt out his mistakes so he might fix them for the future. He's a commanding officer and he needs to own it; regardless of how heavy he finds the responsibility.

He's there for hours, combing through his own words, backtracking through memories, summoning images and scenarios from behind closed eyelids. One thing seems to stick out beyond everything else; one thing that disrupts the reel, making the movie skip and jump in places where it should be running smooth. MacTavish ignores it for a time, because he's almost sure that it's bias – his hard feelings getting in the way of objectivity.

But then Chemo gets shot, and Riley is so close to him, so good at his job that… it's impossible for MacTavish to ignore. Their weeks of training, of trying to get themselves working like a well-oiled machine just haven't stuck with his lieutenant. Whether out of arrogance or something else, MacTavish doesn't know, but he's going to fix it.

In his office, at that moment, he decides on something fair – something reasonable. Remedial training until Riley manages to get it right.

Of course, in reality, things don't always go according to plan.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>MacTavish benches Riley. <em>Hard<em>.

He doesn't do it intentionally. In the days following their return, he throws Riley into team exercise after team exercise. He puts Riley in charge, gives him leadership and changes the game from completing the mission to getting his unit through a skirmish without heavy casualties. It's meant to; at least, make the man more aware of the people at his back.

In the beginning, it's about as disastrous as MacTavish expected, though that's not entirely Riley's fault.

The abrupt change to the status quo is difficult to adjust to. Riley has had his moments playing officer, but never so often, and strained relationships don't leave this new development well received. Frustration grows as orders aren't listened to and mistakes made; the art of managing people not necessarily the lieutenant's forte. Riley fumbles the task more than once; eventually giving in and deciding to control every aspect of his unit's actions instead of trusting them to get the job done.

It's during this time that MacTavish sees some of the worst cock-ups they've had in weeks; the fact that Riley finally appears to be paying attention to his team only a small consolation. Nobody is taking particularly well to being micro-managed, and, after one particularly bad incident that leaves Ghost putting his fist through a wall, MacTavish gives the lieutenant a break.

He's in the process of readjusting team make-ups, trying to pair Riley with more sympathetic personalities so he has a chance to slip more comfortably into his leadership role, when the next op rolls around. Shepherd's got a few spooks in his corner; one of them having tracked down the customer who'd padded Makarov's bank account for several hundred keys of cocaine.

MacTavish pretends not to notice Riley's glare when he officially announces who he'll be taking with him; the lieutenant's name conspicuously absent from his list.

He flies out the next morning, determined to avoid a repeat of their previous op. It's with a tangible sense of relief that they do; this mission vastly more textbook than the last. Archer blows out the getaway vehicle's tires before their wannabe kingpin can run too far, and they bring him in for questioning.

It's not long before they're back at base. MacTavish puts his new team dynamic into play, knowing that it's going to have a rocky start. His prediction comes true when Riley, still pissed over being left behind, uses the first few training drills as an outlet for his anger and immediately raises hackles. The same mistakes MacTavish saw in earlier attempts rear their head and he's almost certain things are going to go downhill again.

Thankfully, they don't.

Riley calms down. It's slow, but it happens and MacTavish thinks it might have something to do with the more easy-going members of the lieutenant's mock unit. Toad likes to shrug off hard feelings and Ozone is incredibly good at staying grounded. Neither of them deliberately tries to shaft the man, at least, and Riley eventually takes to them. He gives them free reign and begins leaving the troublemakers behind and out of harm's way, improving their overall performance.

MacTavish would be happier if he wasn't convinced that this is a result of Riley simply getting fed-up of constantly having to watch everyone, but he takes what he can get.

It's around about then – when the small, but tangible glimmers of progress are starting to show – that the next op crosses his desk. This time, MacTavish leaves Ghost and his pseudo team behind, hoping that he can channel the resentment sure to follow into something constructive by handing them a common enemy. It works, to an extent.

Riley still storms out of the room when he hears the news; door closing behind him hard enough to rattle. Even Ozone is frowning. But when MacTavish returns after several long, tiring days of trudging through stinking wetlands, and slips quietly into an observation post, he's greeted by the sight of Ghost abandoning cover to rescue, albeit roughly, Toad from the line of fire.

It's the first time he's seen Riley do something quite so self-sacrificing, and any fears that they might have regressed are quickly put to bed. His psychological ploy has worked; actually doing more for their team relationship than a month of continuous, squad-based exercises.

Eventually, Riley extends the free reign he'd given Toad and Ozone to the rest of his unit. It's hard to tell if they've actually warmed up to each other, because Angel is still carrying his perpetual sneer and Jester's laugh echoes with the same, mocking edge. But they appear eager to prove that they can be trusted, weeks on the backburner leaving them chomping at the bit. Angel, Jester and Druid seem to have collectively decided that if being back in the action means keeping Ghost happy, then that's how it's going to be.

It only progresses from that point. Riley does a lot better with people generally unwilling to undermine him; improving in leaps and bounds that have even the more grudging soldiers acknowledging his authority. The opposing force starts losing more often, not quite able to match Riley's boys now that they've had so much practice.

MacTavish is already contemplating putting Riley back in the field when Shepherd hands him a third op; the lieutenant making the cut after some heavy deliberation. He's honest to God about to make it official when Toad drags Druid through the door; the Irishman spitting teeth. There are thick, sticky lines of blood dribbling from his chin, soaking the front of his singlet. One of his eyes is swollen shut and his nose is bent at an odd angle, whistling as he breathes.

Nobody knows what happened.

Or, at least, nobody knows the _official _story of what happened. They have to wait a little while for Druid to stop choking on his own blood before he can tell them, though MacTavish already has an idea.

"I pushed a button I shouldn't have, sir," Druid says hoarsely, grimacing as the action aggravates his injuries. "He was in a bad fucking mood today. I didn't read the warning signs right… But, sir… shit, I can't believe I'm trying to help the bloody prick… but, I did provoke him, sir. Remember that when you see him…"

MacTavish isn't entirely certain where this sordid loyalty has come from. He walks out silently, refusing to make promises he can't keep.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>No matter how hard he searches, MacTavish can't find Riley anywhere.<p>

The lieutenant's done this before; vanishing into thin air, his knack for _escape and evade _both impressive and infuriating. MacTavish is about ready to snap when he can't find the man, veins sticking out unattractively on his neck; skin flushed a dark red as his anger finally gets to him. Even Archer, who had enough knowledge and experience to take command if he wanted to, slides seamlessly out of his way.

Eventually, MacTavish realizes that he's getting nowhere and circles back to the base, deciding to hole up and wait in the one place Riley will inevitably return to. He jimmies the lock on the man's door, stepping into Riley's room without much care to privacy. It's practically bare; holding none of the creature comforts and nostalgic mementos MacTavish was accustomed to seeing in a soldier's quarters. He steps further inside, frowning.

Rumpled sheets and muddied shoeprints on the floorboards are the only indication that this space was lived in at all. MacTavish canvases the room again, innately curious. He remembers, months ago, catching a small glimpse of this place while he'd been talking with Riley. At the time, he'd put the minimalist décor down to the lieutenant's recent arrival. Now, he sees that isn't the case.

He wanders around a bit; eventually ending up in front of the man's bedside table, eyes drawn to the wood. Round circles stain the timber; from a round glass being repeatedly placed there with its underside wet. He idly traces one, recalling the memory where he'd seen as much. Beside it, there'd been a little container of prescription pills…

Without really thinking about it, he lets his hand drop to the table's drawer. He tugs it open sharply, causing the familiar, orange bottle to roll into sight, clattering loudly against the drawer's side. His fingers wrap around it, and he lifts it up to his face.

There's a creak from behind him, letting him know that he's no longer alone. He's turning on reflex, glancing away from the label to see who's there. He scowls.

Riley is glaring back at him.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>MacTavish doesn't expect to get punched in the jaw.<p>

But the next thing he knows is that there's blood in his mouth; the familiar, coppery tang thick on his tongue. It coats his teeth in a red film, making him look feral as he snarls, stumbling backwards with the blow. His feet scrabble as he fights to stay upright, his back smacking into the wall behind him, sending shooting pains along his spine.

It's the symphony of pain that does it; that forces open the floodgates of his rarely seen temper, anger clenching his fists so hard that the pill container cracks.

Riley isn't fazed.

In fact, he's swinging again.

This time, MacTavish is on alert, his training kicking in just enough to make the blow glancing. It hurts, but it doesn't knock him for six, and he brings his arm up to block the next attack, Riley's knuckles scraping against his forearm, the lieutenant putting enough muscle into it to for it to sting. He's stuck against the wall, unable to dodge, his own response hampered by limited space. It's a disadvantage, but MacTavish isn't about to become a bloody punching bag.

He uses the next few seconds – where Riley is lining up his next punch, fist dripping blood – to steady his feet, getting solid balance before he leans back into the wall. When Riley lets loose – one hand pressed into MacTavish's chest to hold him in place, the other intent on shattering his nose – MacTavish reaches out, fingers closing around the inside of Riley's elbow. He grips it, moving laterally against the wall as he pushes Riley as hard as he can to the side.

The lieutenant grunts; off-balanced, his body twisting involuntary, shoulder hitting the wall as MacTavish slides free. There's a fraction of a second where both of them struggle to right themselves – Riley is turning, MacTavish is centering himself.

It's MacTavish who takes a gamble; launching himself on unstable legs. He slams into Riley like a freight train, using his weight rather than momentum to pin the man against the wall. In the blink of an eye their roles are reversed. MacTavish holds one of Riley's wrists in each hand, standing between his legs so the lieutenant can't kick.

"Enough," he hisses, enraged.

Riley is breathing hard, nostrils flaring. "Fuck you."

It's the first time Riley hasn't tacked a 'sir' onto the end of his sentence, sarcastic or otherwise. Somehow, that serves to infuriate MacTavish more. He wants to pull Riley away from the wall for the sole purpose of smashing him back into it, but there's still a part of him that's inherently disgusted with the idea of brutalizing a subordinate. He takes a breath.

"Watch your mouth, lieutenant," MacTavish growls instead, tone rough and threatening. "Before you dig yourself a deeper hole."

"Like it bloody matters now," Riley spits back, lip curling into a sneer. It's a nasty expression, though MacTavish hardly notices it now that he's looking into the lieutenant's face. He's pale, with bright eyes and huge, blown pupils. Almost like he's…

"Are you fucking high?!"

A harsh, bark of laughter. "Mate, I'm _always_ high…"

MacTavish stares at him, brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"For a Captain, you really aren't that fucking smart…"

It takes a moment to quash the urge to lash out; the knowledge that Riley is probably trying to provoke him into doing just that giving him sudden clarity. Flames die down to smoldering embers; his rage momentarily put on the backburner. "You're right. If I'd been smarter, I wouldn't have given you the benefit of the doubt for so long…"

Something flickers in Riley's gaze; MacTavish briefly thinks of a wounded animal. "If you'd been smarter, you wouldn't have listened to Shepherd at all…"

MacTavish feels surprise seep into his features. The deal he'd struck with the General had happened behind closed doors. Riley couldn't have known that it wasn't MacTavish's choice, unless he'd guessed…

"… And there it is," Riley mutters, grinning as though he'd somehow won. His words sounds bitter, self-deprecating. MacTavish doesn't know what to say.

For some reason, guilt is twisting his gut. He tells himself he isn't sure why, but that's bullshit, because while MacTavish cares for his soldiers, Shepherd uses them. The difference it makes to be wanted by one and not the other speaks volumes, and MacTavish's silent confirmation seems to have met Riley's dark, twisted expectations to a T.

It's wrong. MacTavish knows it's wrong – that _he's_ wrong. Riley is an arsehole, yes, but he's also broken; cracked china held together by tape and glue, with tiny, black gaps in places where the pieces will never be found. MacTavish saw that the first day they met, and he should have dealt with it the day Shepherd forced him to bring Riley into the task force. Instead, he'd left the man walking wounded in the hopes that somewhere along the line, he'd fix himself.

There's a clatter at the door; a sweet sound, considering the fact that he's finding it increasingly hard to look at his lieutenant.

"You weren't my first choice, Riley," he says, quiet, because this is between them. "But that doesn't mean things can't change."

Riley opens his mouth, but MacTavish is done listening. He drags the man off the wall and forcefully tosses him back into the middle of the room; hard enough that he stumbles, but kind enough that he doesn't go down. There are three faces watching from the hallway, brought, no doubt, by the brutal commotion he and Riley had caused with their scuffle.

"Take him to the brig," he orders, sharp and authoritative. He meets their gazes squarely before singling out Archer, the sniper cocking an eyebrow in question. "He needs some time to cool off."

In front of him, Riley tenses. MacTavish briefly wonders if he's going to put up a fight, despite the odds, shifting in case he needs to throw down again. But as Rocket and Doc push into the room, Riley surrenders to the hands that grip him, letting himself be tugged out with minimal fuss. MacTavish watches them go.

If this day could get any worse, he doesn't want to fucking know about it.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>It does get worse.<p>

MacTavish cleans himself up, nursing his injuries for a time before returning to his duties. He's iced down his bruises and washed his cuts to minimalize swelling; more for his own wellbeing than any attempt at keeping things under wraps. Bored soldiers could gossip with the best of them, and there's no doubt in his mind that his little tiff with Riley is already making the rounds.

He's proven right when he stops by the infirmary on his way down to the quartermaster; poking his head inside to check on Druid. The Irishman is lounging on one of the beds; bare feet crossed at the ankles and hands clasped on his stomach. He glances over when MacTavish calls his name, asking for a sitrep.

"Aye, I'm fine," Druid tells him with a cheerful smile. It looks painful on his battered face. "Doc's just making sure I haven't got a concussion… Though, sir, before you go… I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for defending my honour, and such. I'm a delicate flower, sir. It's nice to have a big, strapping lad watching out for me…"

MacTavish heaves a sigh at the cheek. Shaking his head, he leaves, intending to get on with his task of discussing requisitions with the 141's supply personnel before locking himself in his office. There's plenty of paperwork burying his desk – a perfect excuse to vanish for a few hours.

Unfortunately, he doesn't even get that far.

"Captain MacTavish?" A voice, oddly young for this end of the barracks, hollers after him as he starts to turn a corner; its owner jogging down the hallway towards him, looking especially harried. Closer inspection reveals dark fatigues and a face that can only belong to somebody in their late teens. _Shadow Company_. MacTavish can see where this is going. "Sir? I'm sorry to interrupt, but General Shepherd is looking for you. He says it's important."

MacTavish grinds to a halt, snapping his clipboard closed. "Where is he, Private?"

"Over in the main briefing room, sir," is the quick response; the private colouring when MacTavish catches him staring. The renowned Captain of the 141, looking like he'd just stumbled out of a pub brawl – he must make quite a sight.

"Thank you," MacTavish says, before thrusting his clipboard into the private's anxious hands. "Take that down to Sergeant Major Reynolds and let him know where I am. If he has any issues with it, tell him to come find me later, understand?"

Private Daniels, according to his uniform, licks his lips nervously. It takes him a few seconds, but he eventually forces himself to answer. "Yes, sir."

MacTavish nods once before taking his leave.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>Shepherd motions for him to take a seat when he enters the room several minutes later; the General's eyes lingering on the artwork currently adorning his face. MacTavish slides into a leather-padded chair wordlessly, waiting for the pin to drop.<p>

"Captain," the General greets, smile sharp. "I'm glad you could join me."

MacTavish inclines his head. "Sir."

"I heard you and Lieutenant Riley got into a dust-up this afternoon," Shepherd continues, without preamble. He's holding a steaming mug in his hands, gaze boring into MacTavish from across the table. "I was hoping you could explain to me why the two highest ranking officers in my elite task force were caught playing fisticuffs. By their own men, no less."

Internally, MacTavish winces, the General's disapproval tangible in the air. It's just his luck that Shepherd is on base when the rumor mill is going haywire; spilling secrets he hasn't had a chance to resolve. Sitting straighter, he tries to project confidence. "There was an altercation, sir, between Riley and one of my – one of the men. To put it bluntly – Riley beat the shite out of his subordinate. I tracked him down with the intention of getting his side of the story, but he… jumped the shark, as it were."

"You're saying he attacked you, Captain?"

MacTavish frowns slightly. "I might have inadvertently provoked him, sir, but he did throw the first punch."

Shepherd is quiet for a moment, sipping his coffee. He places his cup back onto its coaster, idly drumming his fingers against the table-top. "Is this kind of erratic behavior the reason why you decided to bench him, MacTavish?"

Of all the things he'd expected to Shepherd to say, that was quite possibly the last on the list. MacTavish openly stares for a few seconds, wondering why they aren't discussing psych evals and counselling to try and figure out what the hell was wrong with their lieutenant. "I… had some concerns about Riley's ability to work with the team," he finally says. "I wasn't willing to put him back into the field until we'd fixed that issue."

"He's an exemplary soldier."

MacTavish can't stifle his unease, his anger. "Respectfully, sir – he doesn't work well with others. Including him on the team would have put everybody at risk."

"I gave him to you to be used, MacTavish," Shepherd replies, dismissing the argument, his tone full of reproach. "He's not the type to sit on the sidelines. Having a purpose is what keeps him grounded."

_No_, MacTavish thinks. _It's the pills that kept him grounded. _He runs his thumb over the shallow cuts on his palm, where the plastic shards of the little orange container had nicked his skin when it cracked. What would happen if Riley stopped taking them? If he missed a dose when he was in the field? What then?

He'd be fucking dead, that's what. If he couldn't handle a teammate accidentally getting in his face, then an enemy firing at him would easily shatter more than his calm.

MacTavish swallows; takes a minute to steady his breathing. Lashing out at Shepherd would not end well for him – or Riley. Best to play this smart. "I was going to take him on our next op, sir. He's been doing well in training – I was ready to give him a chance."

"I'm hearing a 'but' in there, Captain."

"Frankly, sir," MacTavish says, fighting to stop the patronizing edge creeping into his voice. He shouldn't need to explain this. "I want to ensure that he's squared away before I drag him into another stressful situation. I agree that he's an exemplary soldier, but he's volatile – not thinking straight. Putting him in the field now might push him over the brink."

Shepherd only seems to hear one thing; lines becoming more prominent in his face. "You want to keep him? I recall you telling me he was a liability, not so long ago. It doesn't seem as though you believe that's changed."

It's a question that gives him pause. Because there's absolutely no doubt in MacTavish's mind that Riley is, and probably always will be, in some part, a liability. He's the number one reason MacTavish is still sitting at the head of a fractured task force; the reason his face aches and Druid is laid up in the infirmary, waiting to see if his ruthless beating has caused a bleed in the brain. There's almost nothing that gives him a solid case for keeping Riley at all.

Except Shepherd.

If the good General had cared even a whit about the lieutenant, he'd be home. He wouldn't be here, downing pills in an effort to stop himself from snapping, handling guns and people when he's a danger with both. They wouldn't be here, right now, because Riley would be getting the help he needs instead of being locked in the brig after assaulting his Captain.

"I do believe he's changed, sir," MacTavish answers, as evenly as he can manage. Riley came to him broken; he still is broken, and MacTavish will be damned if he lets Shepherd shatter him even more. "The task force will be losing something valuable if I were to let him go."

"Can you guarantee that you'll use him, Captain?" Shepherd asks, meeting MacTavish's eyes with a cold, calculating look. "Because if not, I'd take him for Shadow Company. We need some commissioned officers that've seen combat. I've got too many hotheads in the ranks. They need good leaders. Riley would be a perfect fit."

Perfect disaster, more like. Shadow Company was overflowing with mercenaries and missing morals; the average recruit more thug than soldier. MacTavish doesn't want to think of what would happen to Riley there. Nothing good, he's sure.

He forces a tight smile; the action aggravating his injuries. "I'll use him, sir," he affirms, though it pains him to use those words. "I'm not ready to give up on him just yet."

Shepherd doesn't look particularly happy with the news, but he nods in agreement, lips pressed into a thin, white line. "If that's what you want, Captain. Just remember – if I see a repeat of what's been happening these past few months, we will be having this conversation again. And I can't promise that I'll be willing to humor you a second time."

"I understand, sir," MacTavish says, hearing the threat for what it is. "Thank you."

When he finally steps out of the briefing room; it's with the same, unsettled feeling he usually gets after brushing up against the General's darker nature. Shepherd doesn't generally make a habit out of reminding MacTavish that his authority stands because Shepherd allows it to, but when he does?

It's a right bloody kick in the bollocks.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>In the span of several minutes, he'd committed himself, spontaneously, irrevocably, to fixing Lieutenant Simon Riley.<p>

MacTavish can feel the weight of his decision as he walks the rarely used path to the brig; threatening to crush him with its uncertainty. Whether or not he's made the right choice is something only time will tell, though he's hoping a chat with his lieutenant might make the outcome slightly less ambiguous. If he's going down this road, then he needs answers – ones that only Riley can give.

The sergeant in charge of detention closes his magazine when MacTavish strides through the door, already reaching for his keys before he receives the request. MacTavish lets himself be led, passing several empty cells before they reach the room with a locked door.

"Call if you need anything, sir," the sergeant tells him, opening the cell with a deft twist of his keys. "I'll be right outside."

MacTavish nods grimly before slipping past the man; entering the small, claustrophobic space as the door closes behind him. The room has barred windows and too-bright lights glaring down from the ceiling; furnished with a single chair and an uncomfortable looking cot pushed against the far wall. Riley is lying on it, forearm covering his eyes.

He's awake. MacTavish can see that from the lieutenant's rapidly jiggling foot, one leg crossed over the other; the bed too short to fit the length of his body. But he doesn't look over; doesn't even acknowledge MacTavish's presence.

It's been a while since he's received the cold shoulder.

Exhaling softly through his nose, MacTavish pulls the chair towards him and settles into it, wood creaking beneath his bulk. He sinks a hand into one of his pockets, fishing around for the small, prescription bottle he'd tucked in there earlier. He tugs it out, examining the label for a few beats.

"So," he says, breaking the silence with a calculated move. "Prazosin…"

Abruptly, the jiggling stops.

MacTavish continues reading; ignoring the tension currently thickening the air. "General side effects may include headaches, drowsiness, weakness, blurred vision, nausea, vomiting…"

The cot's metal springs squeak as Riley shifts, slowly dragging himself upright. His head turns in MacTavish's direction, fists curled viciously in the sheets.

"More serious side effects can include pounding heartbeat, fainting, frequent urination, swelling of the feet and ankles, mood changes… well, now. That one sounds a bit familiar, doesn't it?"

Riley is quiet, though MacTavish doesn't need to look at him to know that his face is a rapidly darkening storm cloud; the man's rigid pose in his peripherals telling him as much.

"Here's the thing I don't understand," MacTavish remarks, rotating the container between his fingers, contemplative. "It says, right here, that these are prescribed to you, Riley. But it doesn't say what exactly you're taking them for. Bit strange, that. I've honestly never seen it before, myself."

MacTavish pauses, gaze lingering on the instructions: 'take one tablet before bed, to decrease risk of fainting'. Strong stuff, this. "I was going to look it up, but as it turns out, I have heard about this drug – in passing, mind. A couple of old friends use it. It's supposed to be… what was it? An 'off-label' treatment for one of the symptoms associated with PTSD. Nightmares, and the like."

There's stillness over the room; as though he's just stepped into the eye of a tornado, one wrong step all that stands between him and savage, howling winds intent on tearing him apart. MacTavish finally glances over at his lieutenant; calm, despite the swirling cocktail of rage twisting Riley's features. When he speaks, his voice is lilting, soft.

"Do you have bad dreams, Riley?"

Riley slams onto his feet with a guttural snarl. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck me, eh?" MacTavish shakes his head; derision colouring his tone. "I've given you more chances than you bloody deserve, Riley. Too many. You're a loose cannon – you always have been. Yet I still gave you responsibility – I put men's lives in your hands, and you couldn't even fucking mention that your sanity comes from a bottle." He scowls darkly, eyes flashing. "So yes, fuck me. But fuck you too, Riley. I trusted you."

Riley laughs coldly, harshly. "Like you ever trusted me..."

"You wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

"Bullshit," Riley is grinning; a knowing glint in his gaze. "Shepherd recruited me. You didn't. The only reason I made the team is because the General has your bollocks in a vice."

"Aye," MacTavish agrees, brutally honest. "He got you onto the task force. But don't think I couldn't have gotten you off of it if I'd really wanted to."

"Am I supposed to say 'thank you'?" Riley sneers, the look wholly unattractive. "That you couldn't be arsed finding a way to kick me out? Because honestly, mate, you would have been doing me a fucking favor."

"Is that right?"

"I'm a soldier. _Christ_, I've probably seen more combat than you have. But instead of letting me do my job, you've had me running around on the fucking training field for _months_."

MacTavish simply watches him, head tilted to the side. "You weren't ready to do your job."

"Excuse me?"

The incredulity runs deep; traces of it appearing in the lines of Riley's face. MacTavish shrugs it off, surrendering to his blunt nature. There's no point using his Captain's diplomacy on the likes of Riley; the man needed a more direct touch. "Your arrogance got Chemo shot. I wasn't going to suffer through a repeat of that cock-up if I could help it."

What happens next isn't something MacTavish anticipates. He's expecting righteous anger; denial; a loud, scorching row as the lieutenant refutes his claims.

Instead, Riley blanches. Honest to God jerks as though he's been struck; some of the colour draining from his face. "I-"

"You were in his AO," MacTavish continues, knowing that this is a conversation they should've had weeks ago. "He was covering you, but you weren't covering him. They still can't tell him if he's going to make it back to active service. And yet, they're calling him _lucky_, because another half hour and he'd be tucked under his own tombstone…"

"I thought he was alright."

"You didn't check."

"He's a fucking SEAL. He should have been fine."

"It doesn't matter how good you are," MacTavish says, catching the flicker of a bloodied baseball cap in his mind's eye. "There's always someone better. Someone who gets lucky. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Yes," he replies easily. "Maybe you forgot it somewhere along the line. Or maybe you didn't and it just didn't matter, because you only had to worry about yourself," _that _makes Riley shift, gaze finding a spot on the wall behind MacTavish's head. "But you've been picking it up again."

"Right," the lieutenant sounds less heated, though MacTavish gets the impression that it's because he's started projecting his hatred onto a new target. The sudden, self-deprecating edge that creeps into his words doesn't sit well. "Druid is probably singing me praises on that one."

"You fucked up," MacTavish replies flatly; ire prickling at the memory of their battered subordinate.

"I think you mean I am a fuck-up," Riley drawls, mocking. He sticks his hands in his pockets. "You could probably get Shepherd to take me back now. Maybe even get him to sign off on a dishonorable discharge…"

"We discussed it." It's not said with malice, but he doubts Riley can tell the difference anymore.

"Oh?"

"He wants you for Shadow Company," MacTavish reveals, purposefully scrutinizing the lieutenant's reaction. He wants to see how it goes down, feeling oddly satisfied when Riley freezes in place. He leans back in his seat, idly tossing the bottle in the air. "You are a fuck-up, Riley," he says. "But you're my fuck-up. I'm not a big fan of giving my problems away to somebody else."

"So, what?" Riley asks, muscles ticking in his jaw. "I don't get a choice in the matter?"

"Too bloody right you don't."

Riley snorts. "As if you could fucking stop me. One word to Shepherd and I'll be out of here so fast it'll make your head spin…"

"Maybe," MacTavish isn't particularly concerned. If not because of the roots Riley has already laid down in the 141, then for the fact that Riley chose the task force above Shadow Company when Shepherd originally made the offer. Riley has issues, but he's still a man driven by pride. "I don't think that's something you want, though."

For a second, he thinks Riley is going to jump down his throat over that assumption, the '_don't fucking presume to know me, arsehole_' clearly written on the man's face. But he pauses, inhales deeply – shakes it off. "Why the hell do you want to keep me around so badly, anyway?" Riley finally manages to say instead, running an agitated hand through his hair. "You just fucking said I'm a problem."

"I'm a Captain, Riley. I didn't get the position by shirking my responsibilities."

"I'm your responsibility, now?"

"Among other things."

Riley glowers, not able to find MacTavish's angle. He turns, but doesn't show his back. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

"I want you to be straight with me," MacTavish says, holding up the Prazosin, shaking it hard enough that the pills rattle. "We all have our demons, I know, and I don't like prying into people's personal lives. But when something affects you and your work this much, it becomes my business."

"You think I'm just going to start spilling my guts?" Riley laughs again, mirthless. "There isn't a method of _persuasion _out there that's worked on me yet, mate." He smiles nastily. "I'll take my secrets to the grave, where they belong."

Riley delivers a solid refusal. MacTavish hears _torture, hurt, pain, don't want to think about it, don't make me think about it_. He breathes out gently, tone light. "I don't want a vivid picture, Riley. I'm not so much of a bastard that I want you to relive it."

"Contradicting yourself already, aren't you?"

MacTavish grimaces; resists the urge to groan. It doesn't help that he's never done this before, that he's in unchartered territory and there's nothing in the leadership handbook for… Riley. "Alright... How about I ask you some questions, eh? See if you can answer them."

Riley rolls his shoulders. "If I don't?"

"You aren't staying here," MacTavish answers, entirely serious, sure in his decision. He'll do what he can, but Riley as he is… well, he's dangerous. If he can't open up and try and work with MacTavish to find a solution, then MacTavish will get rid of him. _Completely_. "I won't waste time on a lost cause."

"Fuck off."

He takes that as permission. Deliberating for a few moments, he eventually straightens, preparing to bite the bullet. He knows what information he needs; knows how to get it as quickly and painlessly as possible. "Did you forget to take your pill last night?"

His lieutenant glares furiously at the wall, silent.

"Riley…"

"You already know the fucking answer."

"Say it."

Grinding teeth; a hissed breath. "… Yes."

Well, that was something. "Did that have anything to do with what happened between you and Druid?"

Riley twitches. "Bloody Captain Obvious today, aren't you?"

"Answer the question, Riley."

"That Irish fucker pisses everyone off. He got what was coming to him."

MacTavish frowns. "If that kind of thinking was justified, you'd spend your career in the infirmary, lieutenant," he informs him sharply, letting his diminished tolerance bleed through in warning. Riley crosses his arms, red crawling up his neck. It could easily have been anxiety, or anger. MacTavish isn't sure. "I want an answer, Riley. _Now_."

"Well, I don't make a bloody habit out of slugging the guy, do I?" Riley spits back; wrong-footed and lashing out in defense. "For fuck sake…"

It's still shrouded in evasion, but MacTavish accepts it. This conversation is like drawing blood from a stone, and getting anything more out of Riley isn't going to happen. Not with their current rapport, at least. With that in mind, he cuts his list of questions down to one. A brief meeting with Doc will most likely tell him more about the details of Riley's condition than Riley will himself. Prazosin is a specific drug, after all; one that the young medic is sure to know.

MacTavish looks to Riley, only to find him looking back. He'd been quiet too long. Meeting the other man's gaze, he asks the last, most important question, tone hard. "Does it work?"

Riley blinks. Once, twice, deciding on his response. The age old adage of not being able to lie when looking somebody in to eye rings true. "…You think I'd take that shit otherwise?"

"Good." MacTavish stands, joints cracking loudly, his body complaining at him for sitting in such a stiff, unforgiving place. He needs a run, to clear his head and loosen up his muscles. But first, he needs to finish this. Closing the distance between them, he presses the Prazosin into Riley's grip. "Take one."

"What?"

"You heard me, lieutenant," MacTavish responds, voice commanding. There are only a few inches between them, now. "Take one."

Riley glances at his watch. Its 4:09pm – five hours before most of the base turns in for the night. "I can't, sir," he drawls, words dripping sarcasm. "It's not _bedtime_ yet…"

The reinstatement of his title does little to dissuade him. "You take them before you sleep, lieutenant. If they do what I think they do, then you haven't slept in over eighteen hours. There's no risk in doing it now. You even have a nice, comfy bed over there to lie in."

Apparently, the knowledge that he'll be spending the night in the brig doesn't sit well. Riley is starting to look pissed again, expression turning severe. "Look-"

MacTavish cuts him off. "I gave you an order."

"You can't bloody-"

"I _will_ leave you in here, Riley. You attacked your superior; savaged your sergeant and are practicing insubordination as we speak. Don't think I can't get away with keeping you locked up for the week."

"You fucking wouldn't."

MacTavish grins humorlessly. "Willing to risk it, lieutenant?"

A wordless snarl. Riley cracks open his pills with practiced fingers; fishing out a capsule and popping it in his mouth. He raises an eyebrow.

MacTavish cocks one back.

Riley pointedly cracks the capsule between his teeth. He chews on it easily; no longer bothered by the taste. A quick survey of the room shows there's water by his cot, though he hasn't been given food. MacTavish will fix that when he leaves.

"If you've got nothing left to say…" Riley catches his attention; sounding hoarse. He's replacing the lid; face sour, hands slightly unsteady. "I'm not bloody sleeping with you standing there, _sir_."

MacTavish acquiesces with a nod, backing up to the door. "We'll continue this tomorrow."

"If we fucking have to," Riley sways a little before sitting down on his bunk harder than necessary. It makes MacTavish pause, brow creasing, feet slowly making to retrace their steps. He stops a second later when Riley's head snaps up, eyes dark and glaring. "You're leaving, sir."

There's a moment of indecision; then, MacTavish slips back towards the exit. Riley isn't going to move any further until he's gone, even if that stubbornness ends with him face first on the floor. Pride is a curious thing.

But it isn't just pride.

MacTavish knocks on the door, only having to wait a few beats before it's opened for him. He doesn't glance back at Riley. He simply walks out; allowing the man his dignity. The memory of Riley swinging from side to side, dizzy, pale; holding onto his mattress with a death-grip, knuckles white, trying to stop himself from losing his balance, is one that will always stay with him.

_You asked for this, _Riley's look had said.

MacTavish never lets himself feel guilty. _For your own good._

One year under his command and Riley is still broken, but that's about to change.


End file.
